Halo
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Aziraphale deals with his anxiety through control. Crowley deals with his through obedience. And they both love one another through the pain. Aziraphale x Crowley


_**Notes:**_

_**Written for the '12 Days of Blasphemy' prompt 'halo'. NSFW. Dom!Aziraphale, sub!Crowley. Warning for mention of demon blood and what could be considered mild 'pain play' (using thorns). It's more a poetic narrative than an actual scene. Also, I wrote sub-1000 words because I didn't feel it needed any more.**_

Crowley isn't a fan of roses.

Most gardeners aren't, though those in the business of peddling ridiculously expensive varieties of a supposed pure root lineage are loathe to admit it, but there it is. Roses, on the whole, are uselessly ornamental, take up space, bloom for a criminally short period, and then die back to spend the rest of the year yielding wood and little green.

They're not even interesting enough to live up to their pretentious names.

Amongst Crowley's collection, they'd be a waste of his time, and besides, he's not particularly fond of their sickeningly sweet smell.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, adores roses. He _admires_ them. They're traditional in the romantic sense, versatile in everything from centerpieces to sauces. They're featured in art and in literature. They symbolize friendship, love, purity, _lust_.

But above all else, they must be abused to flourish.

Neglected to inspire them.

Keep them cold, punish them, deny them and they'll prosper.

But that only applies to roses.

That isn't how Aziraphale treats his demon.

Not at all.

Crowley may be ornamental at times, but he's not useless.

Not like a rose.

Aziraphale lavishes Crowley with attention, spoils him with affection.

Loves him, even when it hurts.

Because they share pain, don't they? They've suffered apart and they've suffered together. They've fought side by side and been broken hearted alone. They've drunk and they've wallowed, been tempted and blessed.

They'll never be average, never be normal.

At heart, they're dangerous creatures.

Domesticity doesn't suit them.

Their relationship reflects that.

They didn't start out this way, but it's where they ended up.

Neither angel nor demon know where the bush came from.

Aziraphale may have brought it home by accident along with the other near dead plants he bought from the nursery. It could have been gifted to them last Christmas and they overlooked it, meant to deal with it later.

But Crowley saw the bush, and it _angered_ him.

They were tea roses - a golden-yellow hybrid with blood red tips. Tucked in a far corner and ignored, they'd fruited tall, gotten gangly, unwieldy. They reminded him of fire, of falling, so he tore them up. He'd started by pruning them. Was calm about it, too. He'd trimmed off the cross branches and the sucker growth. But he rushed. The pruning shears he uses began to gunk up and his hands began to shake. The shears slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. The sharp end of one branch pierced his palm.

And memories returned.

Flowers of all types bring Crowley back to Eden, but roses especially. They were everywhere - clinging to the trees, climbing up the walls, more so when Adam and Eve were banished. When Her favored first family left the Garden, God planted roses everywhere, with the longest thorns she could devise, presumably to keep those who'd disappointed Her from coming back. There was no way for the humans to climb them without shredding every inch of their flesh. For a short time after, the Garden looked like a macabre fairy tale.

Crowley was right – bit of an overreaction on Her part.

Perhaps this is, too, Aziraphale thinks as he watches the mess his demon makes, but he lets Crowley have his tantrum.

Crowley has become unsettled as of late – jumpy, paranoid, forever looking over his shoulder, waiting for a shoe to drop and crush him like a bug.

Aziraphale shares Crowley's concerns but he handles them differently. He wants Crowley to thrive - confront his fears, conquer the things he hates. Or else Aziraphale risks losing him completely. He'll go back to being a serpent, slither beneath his blankets or go into hiding and sleep another century away. And Aziraphale needs him.

_God_, how he needs him.

Aziraphale stops Crowley when his hands turn black with demon blood. He takes what remains of the roses from his hands, plucks them from his skin, gathers them together. When he has them all, he weaves them.

Crowley kneels on the cold floor and Aziraphale weaves. It takes an hour. It could take days. The length of time doesn't matter.

The closeness does.

Crowley will kneel for as long as Aziraphale weaves, and Aziraphale weaves for as long as Crowley needs.

When he's done, Aziraphale strips Crowley of his clothes and tends to his wounds, bathes him, then dresses him in his own white robes, and slips his creation over Crowley's head.

"This is your halo," Aziraphale whispers as he strokes Crowley's hair, running his arm underneath so he can feel his demon's freshly washed tresses slide over his skin. "Your crown of thorns." Slowly, slowly, Aziraphale tugs it down until it settles around Crowley's forehead. The tips of the thorns dig into his skin, then release … dig in, then release. With each release, a euphoria grows, and Crowley relaxes. Dig and release, dig and release, it forms a rhythm.

Becomes a reminder.

That Crowley doesn't need to bear the burden alone.

The fear? The anxiety?

He doesn't need to battle it on his own.

That's what Aziraphale is there for.

That's what Aziraphale promised he'd do for him.

Love him, even when it hurts.

Handle what he can and put the rest in his angel's hands.

Crowley stopped fighting to focus on that, and he's rewarded.

"How do you feel?" Aziraphale asks, fingers combing through his demon's hair, working out the knots, adding a braid.

Crowley smiles, leaning into his angel's touch. "_Holy_."

"You are the angel tonight, my dear," Aziraphale says, tilting him forward by his halo and kissing the top of his head. "And what is it that good angels do?" Aziraphale stands before Crowley can answer, reaching for his belt and undoing the buckle. With a flick of manicured fingers, the button goes next, and the zip follows.

Crowley watches closely, because that's a reminder, too.

"Obey."


End file.
